


Memories

by LeadenSparrow



Series: Dream Smp Works (not connected) [4]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst and Feels, Basically I wrote a thing and I don’t know how to tag for it, Dadza, Ghost Wilbur Soot, I Don't Even Know, President Tubbo, Why is their no tags for this fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:02:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27738874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeadenSparrow/pseuds/LeadenSparrow
Summary: Legends are created with the passage of time.Where those legends come from are forgotten.But their names are still celebrated in the great symphony of a nation.
Series: Dream Smp Works (not connected) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2143365
Comments: 6
Kudos: 59





	Memories

It had been years. Years of growth and rebuilding. Somewhere in those years, another war was raged. Something about discs. Something about righting old wrongs and building new ones. 

But no one remembers who won that war. Everyone only remembers the blood. The screams. And everyone remembers the end. When the president said no more. 

Because everyone remembers the treaty. Everyone remembers the days of fighting. Not with weapons but with words. Everyone remembers when the blood god stepped into the debate hall. Everyone remembers reaching for weapons that weren’t there. 

Everyone remembers dying that day.

No one remembers how it ends. One day the blood god was gone. Suddenly he was a ghost story. Maybe he disappeared. Some told the story of a father and two sons. But no one can agree. But it doesn’t really matter. It’s only a ghost story.

Some remember the first president of the young nation. Who built a home in a crater. Who brought people together and made a nation. He has a statue in the center. The elders remember it being built. They remember seeing it unveiled. But no one can remember that young president's name. Lost to history like much created in this nation.

Once a year, on seemingly a random day. All normality comes to a halt and a celebration begins. A ceremonial disc, its meaning long forgotten, is brought from the archives and its music floods the streets. Children dance in the streets and a song is sung. Many wonder whose names in the song. Why, fictional heroes that pepper childhood folktales are sung in the national anthem. No one has an answer. And eventually people stop asking.

There is a row of gravestones atop a hill, resting next to a long abandoned castle, it’s purpose and power long decayed. The names of those buried here long since covered in grime. But every year on that one special day. The president and their cabinet will make their way to the hill. And like clockwork will salute the graves of those long past. No one, not even the oldest in the nation, can remember why.

The oldest gravestone, mostly crumbled and choking in ivy, is the only only one not saluted. And like the salutes themselves, no one is sure why. No one really bothers to even attempt to figure out why. Those buried there are long gone. And it doesn’t matter anyway. The country continues to grow and the world continues to change.

But no matter the changes, a single thing will stay the same. A wishing well atop the hill. The reason it’s there is always changing but nevertheless it will stay. And if you leave a flower or diamonds or gold. Sometimes even a smile will do. Your wish is bound to come true. Brought forth by the man who lives at the bottom of said well. A man in yellow. It’s said if you listen hard enough you can hear him singing. No one is sure if a man truly lives at the bottom of the well. And in all honesty everyone is too scared to look.

There was a new war, a few years back. A new nation attempted to spring up. Attempted to destroy the oldest thing around them. To cement themselves as the new power of the land. And they would’ve won. Everyone is certain of that much. But a stranger had emerged. A desperate president pleading to the wishing well to save the country. And if the legend can be based in truth. A man in yellow emerged from inside the well. So pale he could see through. But what mattered was behind him. A row of soldiers. A row of presidents and fighters from legends and tales of old. People no one remembers but celebrates regardless. And the people who were there that day swear it to be true. But even they still doubt what they saw. 

The nation did not fall. And the man in yellow was never seen again. His haunting melody no longer echoed in the city. And a new celebration was created. It’s reason would eventually be forgotten like all reasoning eventually is. But every year. On one exact day. Bonfires were lit and everyone danced for the ghostly soldiers of legend. And the adults would roll their eyes as the tale was told. But everyone would join in singing the anthem. And every year, children would swear they could hear laughter in the wind. Hear ghostly voices joining in. Hear a guitar playing a melody. 

It was one such celebration, the battle itself long forgotten. The graves once celebrated, had ages ago, crumbled to dust. When a young man in a mask joins the party. And he tells a new story. Of a nation on the brink of collapse. Of two young boys with stars in their eyes. Of an unfinished symphony. And the elderly scoff because wouldn’t they know better than this stranger about what happened. But the man instead laughs and it’s not a laugh of joy or glee. It’s just a hollow dead sound. And if he disappears after that story, no one knows but everyone knows his story joins the legends told. True or not, it’s a good story and like the others it becomes a legend. Details blurry with age. 

And if anyone sees a masked man slipping through the streets no one says a word. And some swear that if you sit on a bench, rotting with age, you can hear music. Others say that if you explore the castle ruins and find a caravan, long fallen apart, you can see soldiers of a war no one remembers.

And even fewer will find a room buried deep in the hill. With the lyrics of an anthem carved into the walls. And sometimes, if you're willing to, you’ll find a winged man, clutching a sword, staring at a darkened stain on the wall. And if the legends are to be believed, if you take the sword from his grasp he will talk to you. Tell you stories of the people who wrote the anthem. Why a crater is what they made their home. And even rarer, if he really likes you, the man will curl you into his wings. Promise to protect you. And he will keep that promise. For the ones who he couldn’t keep such promises too.

But of course, it’s only a legend.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it!!!!!!
> 
> Not really sure what I was doing here but it kinda just happened.
> 
> Anyway I’m writing a angsty alternative festival ending so comment if you’d like that.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated! The serotonin does wonders to my writers block :)))


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